Writing Poetry
Wild plum trees abound
at the Gudgenby River campground.
I squeeze the juice from the fruit, shred
the pulp to liquid red splatters on white flesh,
toss it aside and squeeze another
then smear it afresh.
Hand flattened, spreading red
from breast to mons, I watch your slow grin
as I bend My head and with My tongue
write poetry upon your skin.
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